A Night to Remember
by Apocalypse Survivor
Summary: The Courier struggles with his imminent destiny as the Second Battle for Hoover Dam approaches.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Fallout.**

The night before Courier Six began truly changing the world, he dreamed.

Oh, how he dreamed.

He saw himself, standing atop of the Lucky 38. He saw all of the Mojave at once, but his attention was fixed on the Hoover Dam. It was aglow from the fires of war and passion that swept over its broad sides. On one end, he saw the courageous forces of the NCR. They stood, proud and ready, determined to keep the Dam. To push back against the Legion. To push back against the forces of Mr. House. To defend their ideals their world to the bitter end.

On the other end of the damn stood Caesar's mighty, unwavering Legion. They seem to glare as a whole at the NCR and even the entire wasteland itself with faint disdain, and no small amount of cold apathy. The lives, the whims, the wants of the greater Mojave meant nothing to their fanatical devotion, to their absolute certainty that their cause was just. They had already been set upon a course that would lead to either ruin or revolution. Their time was nigh, and none could refute that.

Floating high above, projected against the blank black night was the ghostly, mechanical image of Robert House's face, as if the world was his computer, the sky, his screen. He looked down on the opposing forces of misguided good and necessary evil, a slight sneer curling his electronically-generated lip. He saw the factions of the Mojave as nothing but squabbling children, fools he could manipulate as he pursued his egotistical goal of saving humanity. He didn't value their lives. He didn't value anyone's lives, not truly, nor fully. He valued humanity's ideals America's ideals _his_ ideals. All others who stood before him were of varying importance and use to him, to be discarded and pushed about as he pleased, like chess pieces or even his precious Securitrons.

And at the apex of the Dam, and the conflict of those around him, stood the Courier. Or perhaps, it wasn't him. The man certainly looked like Courier Six. But it was never the same image for more than a few moments. His attire, his appearance, even his _nature_ changed rapidly, like a crazed slot machine. And sometimes, as he changed, so did the image around him. Sometimes it showed variations of him heroically defending Hoover Dam, a determined grimace on his face as he gunned down zealous Legionnaries as he protected the values of democracy. Sometimes it displayed him leading the charge, a savage battle cry cresting his lips as he led the Legion into battle, and inevitably victory. Sometimes it was the Courier heading an army of Securitrons, directing them with sweeps of his arms as the banner of the old world fluttered across the battlements of the Dam. Sometimes there were even more radically different images and version of the Courier. In one, he stood by himself, perched high above as the wasteland around him descended into a sea of red. Hell, at times, the Courier wasn't even a man.

And once, it showed Courier standing atop a pile of corpses high as the sky, watching as the sun rose to beat down on the lifeless world around his prone silhouette.

Every future for that was only what these images could be seemed, in some fashion, bleak to the Courier. Every one of them had positives, and nearly all of them were far outweighed by the negative. The Courier began to feel a growing sense of despair, turning away from the phantom carnage playing out endlessly miles away. What could he do? Was his mind simply telling him that there was no winning there was no way to truly change the world for the better? Every reality he saw played out ended in stagnation, some factor or another undoing all of the hard work of the leaders and trailblazers that bore them aloft over the other outcomes.

The Courier averted his eyes once again, looking out to the east, searching for anything to hold his attention until this nightmare had faded away into his subconscious. But as he looked eastwards, something gleamed. No, several somethings gleamed. But the brightest was one directly east, far off on the horizon. The Courier squinted, trying to make out what exactly it was that had caught his eye. And as he strained to see, his vision pitched forward, just as it had done when he looked towards his own future.

He saw a wasteland. Nothing special, beyond the fact that it seemed to be even worse off than the Mojave. But something told him to turn ever so slightly, and as he did, he nearly didn't believe what he saw. It was the Brotherhood of Steel! They swept across the north, down into this dangerous pit of a place that the Courier beheld, destroying all opposition. They marched inexorably southwards, descending into this mutant filled shithole, and they were _winning._ They were doing good saving technology, diminishing the mutant threat, even saving innocent lives. And even further south, a great machine was constructed, something the Courier somehow knew would purify the region's water supply, bringing the waters of life to their wasteland.

But it didn't last. Things fell apart, and splinters peeled away from the dimly shining mass of the Brotherhood, scattering to the wind. And soon, things were almost worse than when they had arrived.

Yet, again, something shifted. In the heart of the scorched, nuclear desert, something someone appeared. Just as for the Courier, their appearance constantly shifted. But one thing remained the same they set out and brought alteration, development_._ Even where they wrought evil, change followed in their wake. And against all odds, they succeeded. Even as the wasteland threw everything it had at this person (these people?), they persevered. They brought hope, or they brought annihilation. But with every action something new was born. Something different began, and something unchanged ended.

Well, that was great and all, but how was this supposed to help _him_? The Courier was just a man, a man caught in a tangled web of political struggle, unlike that Wanderer he had seen. He was tied down, roped in by the good, the evil, the ins, the outs, and he just couldn't keep going like this -

Then, he was inspired. He saw, once again, the path where he followed no master, where he took power for himself. But... if these were his options for the future, could the Courier choose? Could he determine what path he really wanted and did he have to do everything like it played out before him? No. It didn't. The Courier's actions didn't need to be dictated by something that another person, even if it was him, had done before. He'd bring change but in his own way. And by God, he was going to save this hellhole and its miserable inhabitants, even if it wasn't how they wanted it.

And as the Courier opened his eyes to the next dawn, a new image of the future took its place amongst the others on the walls of the Hoover Dam, in the Courier's mind something that just might...

Just might end a little differently.

**A/N: Lol or not as I almost certainly slack off**

** See you guys in another six months or whatever**

** At any rate, this is a little prelude to what will hopefully be an actual series in the near future. Or, you know, not. Hopefully it will, if I can work up the will to stop fucking around for the entirety of the summer break.**


End file.
